Inside My Head
by rslhilson
Summary: 5x23 and 5x24: When House's hallucinations get the best of him, Wilson answers his call. Season 5 spoilers/rewrite. H/W slash
1. Under My Skin

_Inside My Head_

_Chapter 1: Under My Skin_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This fanfic is a twist on the final two episodes of Season 5 ("Under My Skin" and "Both Sides Now"). I kept some of the original plot points and dialogue, but most of it is basically a re-write. If you're new to _House_ and have been avoiding Season 5 spoilers – you've been forewarned! =)

* * *

"Wilson. Come get me."

It's raining and Wilson will be pissed, but it's not his fault that his best friend's dead girlfriend won't get the fuck out of his subconscious. It's not his fault that she's back again, that she's singing that stupid song and tossing her stupid blonde hair and acting like she knows everything that he won't admit. It's not his fault because it's the pills' fault, and he can't be blamed for the pills because he needs them for the pain.

He waits until Wilson comes. Amber keeps singing and he bows his head against the noise, both hands pressed against his ears to try to muffle her voice. But it's counterproductive, really, since he knows that it's all coming from _inside _his head.

"House."

He looks up and Wilson is there. The flicker of annoyance in his friend's eyes is almost immediately replaced by a wave of concern.

"What's going on?"

"She's back." His throat is dry, and his voice cracks. Wilson has to lean in closer to understand.

"Who? Who's back?"

House swallows, forces himself to meet Wilson's gaze.

"Amber," he whispers, and he hopes his eyes are enough of an apology.

* * *

"I can't believe you hallucinated my dead girlfriend."

It's the tenth time that Wilson's said this, and House is in too much pain to deal.

"I keep telling you that she means _nothing_." He forces the words out through gritted teeth, trying to ride out another wave of pain coursing through his leg.

Wilson is next to him on the couch, focusing on the blank television screen in front of him. He's already done his part, searched the apartment for all the hidden Vicodin and flushed it down the toilet, and now there's nothing left to distract him from knowing that House can see Amber, and he cannot.

"She can't mean nothing," he counters feebly.

"I can't control what my brain comes up with, you idiot. If I could, I'd be watching my favorite porn stars in action right now instead of putting up with your shit."

"_My_ shit?" Until now Wilson has refused to move his gaze, but now he turns on House. "You call me to come get you in the pouring rain because you've been seeing my dead girlfriend, and then you make me go around looking for all of your Vicodin like it's a fucking treasure hunt, and then I have to sit here and watch you grovel in pain because poor House doesn't have any more stupid pills. And _you _have to put up with _my _shit."

"Look." House heaves himself up off the couch and leans down in front of Wilson, meeting his gaze at eye level. "I'm sorry about Amber. I'm sorry I killed her. I'm sorry I have to see that stupid Cutthroat Bitch all the time – believe me, I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm actually trying to detox here and that I asked you for help. But since you're obviously not the friend I thought you were, you can just leave. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go puke my guts out, because the physical pain I'm feeling right now is equivalent to your emotional wreckage _times fucking ten_."

He limps away, retching into the toilet just in time.

* * *

The bathroom floor is cold, and the hard tiles hurt his bones. He's too proud to ask for a pillow, but it doesn't matter - Wilson has knelt down beside him, gently easing a pillow under his head.

"Drink some water. You'll dehydrate."

He lifts his head enough to take a few sips from the straw that Wilson pushes toward him, but it hurts. Everything hurts.

"You don't have to stay," he breathes.

Wilson puts the glass down and wipes his vomit-stained chin with a washcloth. "I know."

House grimaces against the newly-tightening knots of pain in his leg. "I…I'm sorry." He means it this time.

Wilson doesn't reply, signaling that the apology has been accepted. Instead, he says, "I'm going to make you some ginger tea."

"Ginger tea?" House repeats in as much a mocking tone as his exhaustion will allow. As long as they are no longer arguing, he may as well be mocking.

"It'll help with the nausea."

"You know what would help the nausea? Vicodin. Marijuana. A coma."

Wilson rolls his eyes and makes his way to the kitchen. House is trying to find a more comfortable position on the floor when suddenly his eyes alight on a tiny white sliver of hope.

"Now, don't pretend you don't see it. I see it, which means you see it."

He jerks his head up, regretting that he's set off another wave of nausea just to see Amber leaning against the doorframe.

"You're pathetic," she continues. "If you want the pill, just send him home. But you can't, because that would mean admitting defeat to him."

Ignoring her, House lets his gaze slide back to the forgotten pill on the floor. Slowly, painfully, he crawls on his elbows towards the potential relief, letting his leg drag behind him.

"Now, this is interesting," Amber muses. "If you take the pill, you don't deserve him. If you secretly take the pill, you don't deserve anyone."

He reaches out. He's so close, he can almost taste the relief on his tongue.

"No!"

Wilson's swift arm reaches down and grabs the pill. It's swirling down the toilet before House can even blink.

"No! Fuck!" House scrambles back, plunging his arm into the bowl in vain. "No…" Exhausted, he slumps over the toilet seat, hot tears brimming in his eyes.

Wilson, trying to ignore the stabbing pain of guilt in his chest, puts his hand on House's shoulder and lets him cry.

* * *

"Why did you stay?"

They're back in the living room now, House curled up on the couch and Wilson reclining in the arm chair. After a few more rounds of vomiting, the ginger tea has actually begun to help, and Wilson doesn't want to take the chance of finding another stray Vicodin on the bathroom floor. Amber is there too, sitting daintily on the arm of the sofa, but she's so quiet that House sometimes forgets she's there.

"You're my friend," Wilson answers, surprised by the question.

"I'm your friend who's been hallucinating your dead girlfriend."

"You said it doesn't mean anything, and I believe you."

House shifts on the couch so he can see Wilson's face. "You didn't believe me before."

"No, I didn't," Wilson concedes.

"Did watching me puke my internal organs out change your mind?"

Wilson hesitates, struggling to choose his words carefully. "Just because you've been hallucinating Amber doesn't mean it's necessarily about _her_," he says slowly. "Maybe seeing her is…your way of reaching out to me."

"To _you_?" House scoffs. "Don't give yourself all the credit."

"Well, why did you call me? You could've called anyone."

"Who the hell else was I supposed to call?"

"Cuddy. You could've called Cuddy."

"Right. I should've called my boss to tell her that I'm over-drugged and need her to help me detox so that my hallucinations don't make me kill the next patient. Don't be an idiot, Wilson."

"You were scared, House. You were scared because you were seeing Amber, and you could've done anything about it. You could've taken more pills, you could've checked yourself into a facility, you could've called Cuddy. You could've done nothing. But you called _me_."

"Oh, for God's sake. Let me break it down for you, genius. More pills means more hallucinations. A facility means dealing with crazy morons that I don't belong with. Calling Cuddy means calling my boss, which means it was never an option. Comprendo?"

"But…you love Cuddy."

House's eyes narrow, and he burrows deeper into the couch. "No, I don't."

Wilson raises his eyebrows in surprise. "But you – "

"Cuddy is a distraction," House mutters. "She gives me something to do, something to chase after."

"So it's all been a lie, then."

"Have you learned _anything_ from me? Everybody lies."

Wilson shakes his head. "I don't understand you, House."

"Well, I guess that makes two of us."

"Oh, you understand," Amber casually remarks, emerging from her silence. "You understand all too well. The question is – will he?"

* * *

The next time he opens his eyes, the digital clock on the DVD player reads 5:00 A.M, and the only sound he hears is Wilson's soft, steady breathing.

"Wilson."

Wilson stirs in the armchair, and House calls his name a little louder.

"Mmm." Wilson mumbles a little, mouth twitching as his eyes open and his body begins to wake. Yawning, he glances over at House. "You okay?"

House eases himself into a sitting position. "If I could choose between being Tritter's bitch for the rest of my life and keeping my leg, I'd pick Tritter. But otherwise, I'm good."

"You're supposed to feel like crap. You're doing great."

"And after?"

"You go back to work."

"And what if I can't?"

"Opioid dependency can make you think you have more pain than you really have. You're going to be okay."

"You're telling me what I want to hear. With no evidence."

"I'm telling you what I believe to be true."

"With no evidence."

"You're hardly the most unbiased observer."

House thinks for a minute, carefully surveying the room. "We're alone."

"We've been alone all night."

"No, I mean Amber. She's gone."

"Told you you're going to be okay," Wilson says, relieved. "By the way, I ran out to buy you these when you fell asleep." He tosses a small plastic box over to the couch, and House examines the container of Tic-Tacs.

"Didn't like my vomit breath?"

"That, and I thought they might be a good substitution for Vicodin. You know, keep your mouth happy and all." Then, glancing at the clock, Wilson swears under his breath as he throws off his blankets and begins to put on his shoes.

"It's only 5 in the morning," House points out, tossing a couple of Tic-Tacs into his mouth and setting the box on the coffee table.

"I've got a budget meeting in a few hours, and I haven't prepared yet," Wilson apologizes. "Now that you're through the worst of it…"

"It's fine. You should go."

Grabbing his coat, Wilson begins to make his way to the door. "You know…maybe it'll be good if you come into work. Distract yourself from the pain."

House doesn't reply, but hoists himself up and meets Wilson at the door. "Thank you."

"You don't need to – "

"Yes, I do." He begins to twist the doorknob, but his hand freezes around the handle. There is so much more to say, but there aren't enough words for it all, and time is running out. He thinks of Amber. Wilson loved her once, still loves her, in fact, and she had been daring, brave. She said what she had to say and did what she had to do – exactly how he'd define himself. So why was it so hard now to do as Amber would have done?

He bites down on the Tic-Tacs. Swallows.

"You were right," he finally says. It seems like a good place to start.

"About what?"

"About you and me."

Wilson doesn't understand.

"Amber…meant what you think it meant. And I think that I…called you…for a reason."

Now it's Wilson's turn to pause. "House…"

"You have to prep for your meeting." House opens the door – he's said what he needs to say – but Wilson gently pushes it closed.

"So…you don't love Cuddy."

"No."

"She was a distraction…"

"…From you," House finishes.

Their eyes lock. For a few seconds, there is nothing – only silence, and breathing, and uncertainty. And suddenly they are together, one entity, House pushing Wilson against the wall as his undeserving lips find Wilson's eager ones.

"Wilson…" He calls out his name between kisses and spine-tingling caresses, afraid that none of this is real, afraid that if he closes his eyes he'll open them to find that it's all been a dream.

"I'm here," Wilson whispers, his breath hot on House's neck. "I've always been right here."

They stop, breathing hard, feeling each other's hearts beat in unison. House moves as if to kiss Wilson again, then stops and pulls away.

"Amber," he whispers. Suddenly, his chest hurts.

Wilson tenses with worry. "I thought you said she's gone."

"She is, but you still love her. She's the one you were supposed to be with." He knows it's all too good to be true.

"I _loved_ her."

"No, you _love_ her. Present tense." It's best to stop before things go too far, before the pain in his chest overwhelms the pain in his leg.

"Maybe so," Wilson admits. "Maybe I do still love her. But, House…"

"What?"

"Who's to say she wasn't my distraction?"

House allows his lips to curl into a small smile as he begins to understand. "Cutthroat Bitch was a hell of a distraction," he snorts.

"Desperate times call for desperate measures." Wilson leans in, close enough to feel House's heartbeat again. "It was easy to love her," he murmurs. "She was the closest I could get to loving you."

Wilson dives in for another kiss, and as they fumble towards the bedroom, House finally closes his eyes and loses himself to loving him.


	2. Both Sides Now

_Inside My Head_

_Chapter 2: Both Sides Now_

He stirs and reaches out, but he can't find what he's searching for. Opening his eyes, he sees his arm stretched out to the other side of the bed, but no one is lying beside him. He remembers Wilson's meeting and rolls over to look at the clock on the nightstand – 9:00 A.M.

He could've woken him to say good-bye, or at least left a note…but at the same time, it's nice that Wilson cared enough to let him sleep in. Even the pain in his leg has lessened to a tolerable level of throbbing. He gets out of bed and heads to the bathroom, intending to go about his usual routine as if nothing has changed – but that's impossible, because everything's changed. For one thing, the pills are gone. And he no longer feels alone.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror, remembering the exhilarating feel of Wilson's body pressed to his, the rush of blood coursing through his veins, the thrill of entering a new level of exploration and hunger and ecstasy…

Rejuvenated, he grabs his jacket and hums his way to his motorcycle, tucking the box of Tic-Tacs into his pocket on his way out.

* * *

"I slept with Wilson. After he helped me detox from Vicodin."

Cuddy has mostly been ignoring his presence in her office, but now she looks up from her paperwork and lets out a laugh or a choke or a gag – House can't really tell which.

He shrugs. "Just thought I'd mention it."

"Is…is this a joke?"

"Would I joke about something like this? That doesn't sound like me…oh, wait."

"House."

"I know you _wish_ I was kidding."

"I'm just….trying to wrap my head around this." Cuddy slumps back in her chair, as if worn out from processing the news.

"Oh, good. Because so am I, to be honest."

"And…how's the pain?"

"He's probably got some bruising – "

"Yeah, I get it, you're a stud. This is serious, House."

"I feel better than I did four hours ago. Four hours from now, I'll feel better than this."

"So you were sober. He was sober?"

"Clean, and sober…and _hot_."

"I had no idea that the two of you felt this way about each other."

"Yeah, it's new for us too." He pauses. "Shouldn't you be at that budget meeting?"

"What budget meeting? Don't change the subject."

"Wilson said he had to prep for a budget meeting."

"I don't know anything about a budget meeting. I'm sure you just misunderstood."

He looks away, fighting off the fresh pain in his leg. "Maybe."

"House…I think it's great, you and Wilson. I'm proud of both of you. Really."

"Yeah."

Cuddy pauses. "So now that you're clean…maybe you want to go back to your office and actually do your job."

"Oh, don't make me file a discrimination lawsuit."

"I'm not discriminating," she replies, smiling sweetly as she hands him a file. "I'm treating you equally. Gay or straight, you have to actually work for your pay around here."

"You're miserable."

"And you're…not."

He smiles back, grabbing the file. "And it's about damn time."

* * *

Sending the team off for one more round of tests before Chase and Cameron's wedding, House fiddles with his ball and checks his watch. He hasn't been to Wilson's office yet, but the meeting has to be over by now.

Cruising down the hallway, he stops abruptly at the door.

"Foreman."

Foreman looks up, his hands tightening around the key in his hands. "House."

"I sent you to do an LP, and you jacked Wilson's keys? I thought those days were over for you."

Foreman rolls his eyes and pulls the key from the lock. "Wilson asked me to lock up for him. Taub and Thirteen can handle the LP."

"Is he leaving?"

"No."

"So why bother?"

"House…" He sighs, pocketing the key. "I don't know the details, but Wilson needs you to lay off for a little while, okay? He had to leave his office and he forgot to lock up, so he asked me to do it for him when we bumped into each other in the hallway."

House studies his face, processing. "He didn't want me going in there."

"…No, he didn't."

They stand silently for a moment. Finally, House gives a curt nod. "Okay."

He turns sharply around and begins to walk away. It's all coming back to him now – the nausea, the pain, the fear of opening his eyes and realizing that Wilson was only a dream…

"House – "

"Where is he?" He storms back to Foreman, unable to control the flood of anger pouring out from inside of him, desperate to relieve the pressure in his leg and in his chest.

"House, give him some time – "

"Where. Is. He."

They're face-to-face, bodies a feather's width apart, eyes locked and breaths converging. Finally, Foreman breaks.

"Cuddy's office."

House is off, flying down the hallway, Foreman immediately regretting what he's said and following close on his heels. House is still limping, and it isn't difficult for Foreman to catch up.

"House, he's obviously upset. He needs some time away from you – "

Nothing he says seems to break past House's barrier of fury. House even takes the stairs, enduring the pain in favor of waiting for the elevator.

"House, please…"

They burst into Cuddy's office, House in the lead. Cuddy looks up in alarm, and Wilson swivels around in surprise.

"I'm sorry," Foreman hurriedly apologizes. "He saw me at your office – "

"It's okay," Wilson assures him.

"The fuck it is," House growls. He looks behind him in a warning to Foreman, who holds up his hands in surrender and backs away.

"I'm going to get ready for the wedding," he mutters, closing the door behind him.

"House, we need to talk," Wilson says softly.

House faces him again. "Really? That's funny, because you don't seem to be in a talking mood today. Or is that just with me?"

"House, you lied to me," Cuddy cuts in. Her voice swells with anger. "Why would you do something like that?"

"What?"

"You told her that I helped you detox, and that I _slept_ with you?" Wilson's eyes are brimming with sadness and disbelief. "That's a bit much, even for you."

"Yeah, keep accusing _me_ of lying. God forbid they should know who you really are."

"House, you're being ridiculous," Cuddy exclaims, exasperated. "Whatever you're trying to get at, it isn't funny anymore."

"You were a hell of an ass last night, but I didn't think you'd keep it up," Wilson mutters.

"We _SLEPT_ together!" House roars. The room falls deathly silent. He feels his heart thumping erratically in his chest, hears the drum-like beating in the depths of his ears. Shakily, he reaches into his jacket pocket.

"You can have these back," he murmurs, and reveals what's in his hand.

In his open palm, a bottle of Vicodin stares quietly back at him.

* * *

"House."

He can't move. He can't even breathe.

"House, don't you remember?"

"I needed you," he whispers. "You helped me." His throat feels as though it's been scratched into sandpaper.

"You called me," Wilson reminds him slowly. "You were at a bar, and you asked me to come and get you. You told me that your hallucinations were getting worse. You were scared. I offered you a ride home."

He pauses for a response, but continues when House remains silent.

"We started walking to my car, but you were really freaking out about Amber. You wouldn't listen when I tried to tell you that it was all in your head." Wilson takes a deep breath, afraid that House's stiff figure is going to crumble to pieces before his eyes. "We started arguing, and…"

The Vicodin bottle rolls out of House's hand and clatters to the floor by Wilson's feet.

"I know," House whispers. He remembers now.

* * *

_"Wilson. You have to help me."_

_"I know a nice facility outside of Philly. I went to undergrad with one of the directors – "_

_"I don't need to be locked up in a prison cell with a bunch of morons, I just need to get your dead girlfriend out of my fucking head!" _

_"House, you obviously need help. If you just let me take you there – " _

_"She's driving me insane!" They stop on the street corner and face each other in the rain, House's fiery blue eyes burning into Wilson's pleading ones. "You think she ever even loved you? Or did you just forget that she was a Cutthroat Bitch?"_

_"House! You're hallucinating. She isn't real. Whoever you're seeing, and whatever they're saying or doing…it isn't real."_

_"I'm not just seeing _anyone_, I'm seeing _Amber. _Even when she's dead, she's a hovering little bitch."_

_"Look, I get it!" Wilson explodes. "You hate Amber! Everyone hated Amber! You don't have to tell me in five million different ways, because I already fucking know! So just shut up and let me take you where you need to go."_

_"Home. I need to go home."_

_"No, you need to go to a facility and get _help_!"_

_There's a rising pressure in House's chest and his leg feels like it's being sawed in half, and he doesn't know how he can be soaking wet and burning hot all at once. Each breath is a struggle, and he's afraid that he's drowning in the rain. Wilson doesn't understand – why doesn't he understand? He needs to get Wilson's attention, but he doesn't know how._

_"She didn't deserve you." He doesn't know where the words are coming from, but at least he's found something to say. Maybe he'll feel better when it's over. "I fried my brain and risked my life, but it wasn't for her. I did it for you. And when she died, I was happy, you know why? Because I didn't have to put up with her _shit _anymore. I could have you all to myself, and I didn't have to share you with someone who didn't give a rat's ass about you."_

_The sound of the rain beating against the pavement permeates his ears. He's angry and exhausted and in pain and fucking scared, and he's not really sure what he just said. Wilson is here – Wilson is supposed to take care of him. But as a bus pulls up to the stop on the corner, he feels himself being dragged towards the folding doors._

"_He had a little too much to drink," Wilson tells the bus driver when the doors open. "Can you make sure he gets off on Maple?"_

"_Sure thing," the driver replies._

_Suddenly House is being pushed up the stairs, and Wilson is dropping coins into the slot with no intention of staying on the bus himself._

"_Where are you going?" House whispers._

"_I was going to take you to get help, but you wanted to go home. So go. Fucking. Home."_

_Wilson leaves. The doors close and the bus pulls away._

_He is alone._

* * *

He feels Cuddy's hand on his shoulder. Hot tears are sliding down his cheeks, and he doesn't know when or why he started to cry.

"This morning," she says softly. "Everything you told me. You really thought it was true."

He nods. There's not much else he can do.

"You…hallucinated everything."

He looks at Wilson, and it's an eternity before he can find the words to speak.

"…Yes."

The room is blurry, spinning. He can't tell if it's his tears, or his nausea, or his insanity. He can barely hear Cuddy's voice in the distance, asking him if he's okay.

"So. This is the story you made up about who you are." Amber's voice slithers into his ear, her presence cutting through him like ice. "It's a nice one."

"Too bad it isn't true."

His eyes slide up to see Kutner by the window, and he knows what he has to do.

"No," he whispers as Cuddy shakily cups his cheek in her hand. "I'm not okay."

* * *

The car is gliding down the road, the roar of the engine filling the silence so that neither of them has to. House stares out the passenger window, trying to focus on the trees flying by. It's too hard to do anything else.

Wilson had offered to drive him, and House hadn't refused. He hadn't said anything, actually, but his slight nod was enough, and they all knew it was what he really wanted. Now that they're actually on the way, though, he wonders if maybe he should've asked Cuddy instead.

"I'm sorry you have to miss the wedding," he finally manages to say.

Wilson shrugs, not taking his eyes off of the road. "I've had three of my own; I don't think I'll be missing much."

"I'm…sorry about…everything."

Wilson glances over at him. "It's okay."

"No, it's not."

"You weren't yourself last night, and I should have been more sensitive to that."

"Still. I want you to know that I'm sorry." He doesn't think he's ever apologized so much in one minute, but then again, he's never screwed up this badly before. "I said a lot of shit that I shouldn't have."

Wilson inhales deeply, as if considering. "Apology accepted," he finally says, managing a small smile, and now House feels like he can breathe, too.

A large gray building has begun to loom closer and closer, and he knows that his time is dwindling. He looks over at Wilson, who's returned to concentrating on driving. He takes in the soft contours of his face, the murky depths of his coffee-colored eyes, the way his brown hair is tousled by the bumps in the road – anything that will help him get through the hell that he knows is waiting for him.

About fifty yards away from the facility, the car slows to a stop.

"This is it," Wilson says.

"This is it," House repeats. He slowly exits the car, taking his time to smooth out his clothes as Wilson retrieves his suitcase from the trunk.

"Here." House gives him his wallet and his watch. "Hold on to these for me, will you?"

"Of course." Wilson takes them with his free hand and slips them into his coat pocket. "Are you ready?"

"I'm always ready." The suitcase is transferred to its owner, and House turns to face the building. Mechanically, he takes a few steps forward, one foot in front of the other. This is it. There's no going back.

"House."

He stops, looks behind him.

"Wait." Wilson catches up to him, trying to find the right words to say. "I…I just…well. Good luck in there."

"Thanks." He's about to keep going – right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot – but then Wilson's hand is on his shoulder and he turns around again.

"I've been thinking," Wilson says. "About us, I mean."

He's struggling to find the words, and House holds his breath. Waits.

"I'd be lying if I said that the thought of you and me has never crossed my mind," Wilson finally manages to say, and the flood of relief that pours through his words is felt by House, too. "I just never thought you'd be interested, and then there was Amber, and I…" He takes a deep breath, remembers what it is he's trying to articulate. "Maybe when you get out of here, we can give it a shot. See where it goes."

Their gazes lock in a moment of shared understanding. Finally, House gives a slight nod.

"Thank you, Jimmy," he whispers, and he hopes it's enough.

"I'll be waiting for you," is the reply. Wilson watches as House walks towards the front doors of Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital, where a small group of staff members is already waiting.

House looks back. Their eyes meet one last time.

He disappears through the entrance, and the doors close behind him. Wilson gets back in the car, revs up the engine, and begins to drive home. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out House's watch and slips it over his wrist with a small smile.

For now, it will have to do.


End file.
